Best Paupers Poems
Oh God what is wrong with your people
Can you feel it, the pain and the loss
Are we each to be martyred and broken
Our sentence to end on the cross
The world cries in vain, for a leader
You killer, you pervert, you *****
As each tears the other, to pieces
Still they clamber to sit on that chair
There are those that wilfully plunder
The riches they claim, as their right
Though it’s tearing their neighbour, asunder
So what! that’s the way of the fight
Political puppets still pending
On election results, for to see
Who will skin from the hides of the lowly
For their flesh or their lucre to bleed
Keep changing their juxtapositions
One falls and another one rises
From party to party, they party
Securing, political prizes
Policies, policies, policies
Whilst we drown in a whirlpool, of ****
Political correctness abounds
If themselves aren’t the victims of it
How the dead they must roll, in their graves
As daily they’re Joined, by their kin
As political promise piles higher
Eclipsed by the weight of their sins
A country of saints and of scholars
Of singers, of poets and of bards
Condescension and greed, are her virtues
Our fate’s in the twist, of the cards
We wait, with the Wonder of children
A president, let us rejoice
A future of change, in the making
A fool, without even a voice
Break the chains, of the bastards, before you
Can’t you see, we’re all sick of the lies
As suicides mount up, daily
Can’t you hear it, the pain in their cries
A leader who’ll fight for the people
In these times, that are hotter than Hell
Will no-one stand tall, for the feeble
Only history ….. and time, it will tell
Verily I say unto thee,
The subjects of kings are not free.
They answer to all the king’s court.
Submitting a yearly report.
If rulers own part of thy time,
With a tax on every dime,
Then thy freedom and liberty
Is a fallacious fantasy!
Canst thou even speak to thy kings?
Nay! Thou must speak to underlings!
Not to bishops, but to friars.
Not to knights, but only squires.
Thou art the pawns upon the board,
The playthings of the royal ward,
The cattle that fill their coffers,
Begging the crumbs their king offers.
Thou art the sons of slavery,
And the daughters of apathy.
And those who fought with bravery,
Must yield to thy complacency!
It is better to fight and die,
Than let fear cause thee to comply
With those who wouldst make thee their slave,
‘Til ye rest in thy pauper’s grave.
Mother told a story yesterday
of how poets die in black penury
she said I won't be a pretty poet
as my dreams dance on my ink
"Poets are mirror of deceit and pain
craving beyond the debris of life
over my dead body will you be one!"
she pulled down the heaven on me!
a woman is a country of many colours
the hearts of men are far country
we are all students of life, learning
even the masquerade has a date,
a date to join their ancestors beyond
hold your tongue to your bosom
fate knows whose palm wealth will
be planted sooner or later by nature.
You will be raped by darned darkness
fed by junks of insanity lurking by...
a teary gland shall emerge, right in
the bosom of your myopic despair shall
you live by your sorrow like an oiled
orchestral stammerer down the street
father raged holding my LLB firmly
like pixels collection from a twisted
camera abandoned by a loner.
writers are mirrors connected to reflect
this world filled with broken stanzas
if my fears are not for my brothers and
my sisters and for Nigerians chains...
I will leave my hope dashed in the air
tilt this morning with the eyes of the night,
we will dice this moon for hand
on the paupers animated series of life.
Aduke birthed venoms last year for you
Chioma made your tears red images
words are like Sunbeams, the more they
are condensed the deeper they burn!
demise of a poet, no one seem to notice
in your domain,you don't expect praises
if a kingdom falls,there are several others
to replace it while you rot calmly.
Poetry pays but its a business of the Elites,
a trade not meant for children!
Shakespeare name is still carved on the
body of the sky, his head still seen today.
what is penny without a route in life?
Poets are pauper to their testy tongue!
Father, leave me to my dreams to perish
alone, even if evil calls for good,
I will stand as one poet and always will.
let the traces of a saint be kept in peace
let the shining armor of a poet glitter
becoming another star is not a sacrilege
Poets are not broken and shattered dust
this musing muse is only our spirits;
a spiritual elixirs to the clay world
we are crops, the worldcover, ladders
let the ways of poets be kept, we are
not paupers on the street begging for meat.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent
You name it ‘the city of dreams’, I m alien to this city
Such an enigmatic crowd, paupers full of versatility
This isn’t an account on beggars, I m not here to preach
Just amazed how varied ways of begging are adopted by each
Some pinch their infants and make those innocent souls weep
Some victim to physical violence, those wounds so deep
With messed up hair, gloomy look and a torn soiled sari
She would skillfully mint money from every new Ferrari
Some charming kids dancing on the beats of hit Bollywood numbers
Some play instruments listening to which every mind slumbers
Some holy angels shower their blessings on you
Some question your humanity, humans are left so few
And paupers like you and me, fall prey to their plead
Lending just a rupee, to our poverty that won’t lead
With these poor sentiments, we paupers are born
A rupee leads to another and the show goes on…
While I'm not so sure
I would go so far
as to exchange our WhiteHouse Prince
with our homeless shelter Paupers,
I would support
a matriarchal unlobbied petition
that our WhiteHouse Prince
could best reside in nearby resonant shelters
where he will find all the advisers
and secretaries
and counselors
he may need,
and more,
about what not to do
to further offend
those who could never afford
even a part-time lobbyist,
much less an ecopolitical therapist.
A Prince among Paupers
is what I patriotically seek
to relearn by listening
to Mother Earth's hard cooperative lessons
in what is a cultural climate of and for health
and what are failing economic landscapes of pathology,
disinvestment away from well-sheltered regenerativity.
she
she walked along the silken shore
crocheting thoughts and even more
morning could not unravel her
men’s lustful eyes freely traveled her
she cleaned the windows of my soul
laying together between satin sheets
she took my life and rhymed for me
those lines which had always dangled free
and in her hands i could be
an emperor of my destiny
hers was a life so freely lived
she had so much that she could give
a lady of the pauper’s dreams
more suited for the feast of kings
she played the game like none before
…gave her all and still had more
she walked amidst the forest light
where her creator marveled at the sight
surely pleased at what he had done
…defining beauty for everyone
while colors wept in a crimson sky
it was that time, early dawn
when sailors cast their anchors down
and the grace of morning gained control
as i watched her smile freely unfold
and purity revealed her milk-white skin
she enjoyed a life so freely lived
and had so much that she could give
a lady of the pauper’s dreams
more suited for the feast of kings
her knight bowed slowly to the floor
while the pawn crept out the waiting door
she played the game like none before
never caring about the final score
‘til at last she laid beneath the forest trees
and felt the gentle flowing breeze
her golden hair, a babbling brook
with soothing sounds at each turn it took
only rainbow-washed colors could compare
she answered to the distant sound
of a shepherd’s harp placed on the ground
and walked behind the towering clouds
waving goodbye to her admiring crowds
when nature brought her to her knees
oh, some crowds you can never please
til at last they laid her body down
and pulled away her tarnished crown
pushed a smile where there was a frown
and placed her with the famous clowns
and it rained
© tolbert
What have we done to our blue skies what have we done to our land
neglectful beings that we are we abused the works of His doting hand
What made us think that we were Kings in a Kingdom not quite ours
with Mother Nature maimed we're paupers, living on counted hours